I don't know if it's animalistic or what, but men become like peacocks with their feathers up when women are around.
I remember going with my parents to weddings where the women would arrive covered in black veils, but underneath, they'd be wearing the most exquisite brightly colored Dolce & Gabbana suits. They were like peacocks showing off their tails.
If Truman hadn't published 'Answered Prayers' in parts, he'd have had the drive to finish it. The peacocks took it away from him.
Across the Atlantic, in the scattered, far-flung, rural settlements of colonial America, hospitality had become a central concern, and hostesses, like peacocks displaying their iridescent plumage, tried to outdo one another with their creative food displays.
